


You Can't Hold the Hand of a Rock and Roll Man

by autoschediastic



Category: Adam Lambert (Musician)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-18
Updated: 2011-02-18
Packaged: 2017-10-15 18:06:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/163470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/autoschediastic/pseuds/autoschediastic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"When we get out of here," Tommy says, "and my love of horrors is toast, I'm gonna be so pissed."</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Can't Hold the Hand of a Rock and Roll Man

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fairfax_verde](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fairfax_verde/gifts).



Morning comes barging in wielding sunbeams like machetes. Adam shoves his face into a pillow with a groan. The tour's over. He's supposed to be able to sleep now.

Five minutes later, when the sun hasn't considerately imploded and he's still wide awake, he rolls over. At least he's not-sleeping in a great big hotel bed with fluffy mounds of pillows and two pounds of rich crisp cotton sheets instead of a bunk nailed to the floor in the back of a bus. Though the bus Lane snagged for the European leg of the tour had been pretty amazing, even if the bed in it looked like somebody swiped it from a cheap porno. The last night he had it half the troupe invaded, one big pile of happiness and hugs that slowly dwindled to only Tommy curled up beside him, tiny and over-warm and drooling on his shoulder.

He looks up to find his reflection grinning back at him like a giant dork. "Sap," he mutters, shuffling his ass out of bed and into the bathroom.

A hot steamy shower eases the worst of his hangover. Last night he'd partied way too hard. It'd been so good. Their final Glam Nation show went off without a single hitch, the audience had been spectacular, and Tommy stayed at the afterparty long after he'd normally call it quits. He hadn't even protested one bit when Adam hauled him out onto the dance floor. There's an itch lingering on his skin where Tommy pressed up against him, slow dirty grind with strong hands gripping Adam's biceps hard. He absently scrubs his cheek where Tommy planted a sloppy wet kiss.

It's more than half an hour before he's ready to head out for breakfast. He puts on too many rings, then adds one more because there's absolutely no such thing as too many rings as long as he's got a single bare finger, and because the extra shine makes him feel slightly less like roadkill.

The hallway is cool and quiet. He jabs the call button for the elevator and rocks back on his heels. When he notices the button's not lit up, he pokes it again, and again. It stays dark.

"Okay, universe," he says, turning around to look for the stairs, "I can take a hint. I'll exercise."

He wanders down the hall slowly, still feeling pretty trashed. Breakfast definitely needs to be something healthy and wholesome. No more than one cup of coffee.

The far side of the hall ends in a boring taupe wall. Frowning, he heads back in the other direction. On the way, he pokes the button one more time, just to be certain. It stays dark. The number above the doors doesn't move. He really doesn't want to tromp down twenty-three flights. Maybe he can catch it a few floors down. As soon as he finds the freaking stairs.

This end of the hallway terminates in another blank wall. Back-pedalling, Adam sizes up the corridor, gaze landing on the fire escape plan. It helpfully points out that he's right here, and the stairs should be right there. He looks at the wall, the plan, back to the wall again.

"Room service it is," he declares.

Back inside his room, he sits on the edge of his unmade bed and digs the menu out of the nightstand. His stomach rumbles voraciously at the idea of a side order of bacon. Telling it to shut up, he goes with a fruit salad instead.

The phone rings, and rings, and rings. Weird. The guys downstairs are the most dedicated phone-answerers ever--most times he's pretty sure they don't even let it get through a full ring. Figuring he hit a wrong button, he hangs up and quickly redials.

Still nothing. Holy shit. It's been a long, long time since he's been this wasted the morning after.

Picking up his own phone, he hits Neil's name. What's the use of having a little brother if not to come rescue you from your drunken stupidity, and also bring breakfast? Neil's technically not under contract any more, but he's family. You can never wriggle your way out of that commitment.

No answer. Adam huffs. On a whim, he tries his mom--brunch date, she'll like that. When she doesn't pick up, he tries Monte, because Monte's always been first on his list after family, and when he doesn't answer, a fit of famished desperation drives him to pick Tommy's name out of his contacts.

"S'fucking early," Tommy croaks.

"Oh thank god," Adam says, dropping back onto the bed with explosive relief. "You have to take me out to breakfast."

A shuffling sound seeps across the line. Then a grunt, a muttered, "Shit, motherfuckin' blanket, tryin' fuckin' kill me," and assorted other adorable Tommy's-not-awake noises. It's sort of sad how happy Adam is to hear him rasping out cusses like a jacked-up street thug.

"I'll buy," Adam offers. "Mimosas, your favourite."

"And bacon," Tommy says over the jingle of his belt. "Lotsa bacon. Like, a whole pig."

"Of course!" Stealing a piece of Tommy's bacon isn't at all the same thing as ordering it for himself. "Hang on, lemme go see what room I'm in."

"5060." Tommy's jaw cracks on a yawn. Something thuds against the door. "Open up."

Scooting off the bed, Adam hurries to the door, opening it to find a sleep-rumpled Tommy Joe slumped against the jamb. Smears of last night's makeup linger dark around his eyes, and his hair's stuck up in the back like a crazy bird's nest, and it works. He's gorgeous. There are days Adam's seriously tempted to bitch him out for being so damn hot without even trying. Most of the time, though, Adam thanks his lucky stars he gets to look at Tommy for hours and hours day in and day out.

"You forgot I was right down the hall, didn't you," Tommy says, a grin hitching one corner of his mouth up higher than the other. "You totally expected me to drive out from fucking Burbank."

"Maybe," Adam hedges. "It totally would've been worth the trip."

Tommy punches him in the shoulder, shuffling in for a hug hello while Adam's in the middle of a very heartfelt, " _Ow_."

"Whatever, bitch," Tommy says, muffled with his face snuggled right into Adam's chest. "I want breakfast burritos."

"Fine, you can have breakfast burritos." Dropping his arms around Tommy's shoulders, Adam gives him a slow squeeze, hugging tighter when Tommy does. It would take more than both their lifetimes combined for Adam to get tired of Tommy's hugs. Tommy gets into with his whole body, really _means_ it. Giving in to the urge to rub his cheek against the spiky haystack of Tommy's hair, Adam says, "As soon as you can find the stairs."

Pulling away, Tommy says, "Man, that is so sad. I thought I was fucking wasted."

"Shut up," Adam says, and fluffs up the front of Tommy's hair, smiling innocently as Tommy bats at his hand, grumbling. "Find the biscuits, Toto, find the biscuits."

"Bite your fucking ankles," Tommy mutters, jamming both hands into the front pocket of his hoodie. At the elevator, he jabs the call button with his elbow.

"It's out," Adam says, pointing up at the number six glowing brightly above the doors.

Tommy looks up. "Huh. Was working last night when you hauled me up here. Guess it's the stairs after all." As they head down the hall, Tommy bumps Adam's arm with his shoulder. "So like, thanks for that, by the way. The cab and the room and shit."

"No problem," Adam says, shrugging it off with an arm draped casually around Tommy's shoulders. Not that he remembers getting a cab for Tommy, or booking the room, but it's not anything he hasn't done before. He doesn't have to worry about Tommy the way he's had to worry about some of his friends. Even though Tommy drinks like a fish, he's careful. Getting Tommy a room last night probably saved Dave or Mike from designated driver duty.

Near the end of the corridor, Tommy says, "What the fuck," and stops short. "Dude, the stairs were totally right here. My room's right next to them."

A weird, nervous twinge goes through Adam's belly. "Maybe you're on the other side?"

"Looks like," Tommy says, and laughs. "Fuck, we really are still wasted. What fucking awesome shit did you let me smoke last night? Please tell me you got some left."

Adam doesn't precisely remember lighting up last night, either. Still, he doesn't doubt it. The only thing better than a good high is a good high with Tommy, because a high Tommy is lazy and pliable and handsy, and Adam is man enough to admit he really, really likes a handsy Tommy Joe. There's something mind-blowingly hot about a pretty straight guy not afraid to grab Adam's junk.

"Shit," Tommy says, slowing to a halt at the far end of the hallway. "Seriously, where the fuck are the stairs?"

"According to this," Adam says, tapping a finger on the escape plan, "right here."

"My pasty white ass," Tommy mutters. Yawning again, he drags a hand roughly back through his hair. Adam's insides do a strange sideways slide. "We're getting room service."

"Tried that already. The front desk's not picking up."

"So what, we're like, marooned?" Tommy whips around, trotting back to Adam's room. "Like hell. C'mon."

By the time Adam catches up, Tommy's on the hotel phone, scowling. "Can't get an outside line," he says when Adam moves in close, and starts digging through his pockets for his phone. He taps the screen a few times, puts it to his ear. A second later he yanks it away again. "What the fuck."

"What?" Pulling out his own phone, Adam tries Neil again. Instead of endless ringing, blank silence echoes across the line. "Is yours ringing?"

"No." Tommy flings his phone onto the bed and puts the receiver down. He scrubs both hands over his face and back into his hair. "Okay, like, there's only one thing to do here."

"Mindless panic?" Adam says on his way to the window. He yanks the curtain open, hissing a curse when nighttime LA smacks him in the face. "Seriously, what the hell."

"Oh yeah, we are so wasted." Shrugging out of his hoodie, Tommy flings it over the back of a chair on his way to the minibar. There are bottles Adam didn't notice before strewn all over the desk beside it. Muscles flex in Tommy's forearms as he pulls out three tequila and a Jack. "This is what we're gonna do. We're gonna pop on a movie, drink whatever booze is left in this thing, and pass out. Then tomorrow you're gonna buy me breakfast, 'cause now I really fucking want my burritos."

The mattress whumps as Adam sits down heavily, sheets billowing. He automatically takes the tequila Tommy cracks open for him and shoots half of it right off the bat, throat burning. "'Kay," he rasps, and coughs. "But no porn."

"But-"

"No," Adam says firmly, scooting back to shove pillows around, making a cosy nest for them to curl up in. "No shoving your boner in my face tonight."

Halfway on the bed, Tommy swings back around to nab another handful of clinking bottles. "You like my boner."

"Yes I do," Adam freely admits, lifting his arm for Tommy to wriggle beneath it. "No porn."

"We could watch gay porn," Tommy wheedles, glee sparking brightly in his eyes as he hands over another drink. Surprised to find the first bottle Tommy gave him empty, Adam trades it for the full one. "A hole's a hole."

"Straight boys," Adam mutters fondly, burying his nose in Tommy's hair. They're going to be the death of him.

*

This time when Adam wakes, it's to the sharp glow of the pay-per-view menu on television and Tommy sprawled halfway on top of him. A tiny bottle digs into his ribs as he shifts, and pins and needles shoot up the arm Tommy's sleeping on. Wincing, he wiggles his fingers, and looks blearily around for his phone.

Tommy huffs in his sleep, squirming down harder. "Stoppit."

"Oh shit, _ow_ ," Adam hisses. He rudely shoves Tommy off his arm, muttering a half-hearted sorry as Tommy wakes up enough to glare through the hair fallen over his face. "My arm's asleep."

"So was I." Rolling over, Tommy stretches out, strung tight and trembling until his neck pops and he melts into the bed with a lazy sigh. "What time is it?"

"Dunno. Still dark out." Adam starts rooting harder through the blankets. "Have you seen my phone?"

"Yeah, sure," Tommy says, smacking his hand down on the bedside table. Finding nothing, he leans up on his elbow. "It was right there."

"Damn it." The last thing Adam needs is his phone lost. Replacing it never takes long, but all his contacts are in there, his music. He doesn't _want_ to get a new phone. Lane's still sort of ticked at him for dropping it down the toilet that one time.

"Call it," Tommy suggests, sitting up to help look. "Use my phone."

"Where _is_ your phone?" Tommy flings him a look. Maybe that had come out a little too close to hysterical. Something feels off, and he's sure as hell not high anymore. "Sorry. Look, does this feel weird to you?"

"Waking up in bed with you surrounded by empty bottles?" Tommy shrugs. "Not really. Maybe if I'd lost my shorts again."

"That was all your doing." Heart kicking at his ribs, Adam slides off the bed. The curtains are wide open. Outside everything looks normal. There are no flashing lights, no mushroom clouds, no strange spaceships hovering over the Hollywood sign. His reflection frowns at him. "When I called you earlier. Wasn't it morning?"

"No," Tommy says, then stops. "Maybe?" His face scrunches adorably. Adam could kick him. Or kiss him. "Couldn't have been. No way did we just sleep like twelve fucking hours."

"Either way, I think I need to get out of here." Turning to the mirror, Adam tries fluffing his hair up into something presentable. "D'you still want your tacos?"

"Fuck, I always want tacos. What about your phone?" Scooting to the edge of the bed, Tommy hauls on his boots and starts lacing them up.

"Forget it." At the worried glance Tommy throws him in the mirror, Adam flaps a hand. Tommy's eyebrows creep closer to his hairline. "Whatever. It's got to be in here. I'll find it after." His phone's honestly the last thing on his mind right now. There's this sharp, panicked buzz at the base of spine, creeping steadily upwards. He makes sure his wallet's in his back pocket on the way to the door. "Come on."

"I'm coming, I'm coming, shit, man." Tommy jogs around the foot of the bed, stepping out into the hallway hot on Adam's heels. He jolts forward when the door bangs into him, Adam's grip on it slipping. "Seriously, what the hell?"

Adam drags in a very calm, very deep breath. There's a logical explanation for what his eyes are telling him. There has to be. For fuck's sake, he's never smoked _that_ much pot.

"Shit," Tommy breathes. His chill fingers wrap tightly around Adam's forearm. " _Shit_."

Adam closes his eyes. Counts slowly. When he gets to three, he's afraid to look again, so he pleads, "Tell me you're not seeing this."

"Nope, sorry," Tommy says, his other hand hooked into the back of Adam's jeans and tugging hard. "I'm seeing it. Get back inside."

Sucking in another breath, Adam opens his eyes. The hallway is still about half the size it's supposed to be. There's no elevator, no other rooms. Ten feet in either direction terminates in a smooth blank wall.

He gets the fuck back inside, slamming the door behind him. His heart jackrabbits up into his throat, but the room looks the same. All his stuff's still here.

Tommy peers up at him with a strange mix of pissed-off, worried, and fucking _intrigued_. "That was pretty fucked up."

Adam's about to say _you're fucked up_ , because intrigued is not the reaction a sane person should have to time and space fucking rearranging itself around them, not even a sane person with an unhealthy addiction to horror movies. A sane person would _freak the fuck out_.

He's honestly not surprised that's when the lights cut, plunging the room into total blackness. He screams like a five year old anyway, and lurches forward to grab onto Tommy.

"Jesusfuck," Tommy barks, stumbling backwards, tripping over Adam's feet. One good hard jerk has him reversing direction, crashing into Adam's chest while Adam's back slams into the door. "Dude, fuck!"

"Sorry," Adam gasps, "sorry. Don't fucking move, okay? Just hang on a second, and don't move." In his arms, Tommy goes still. Not even a scrap of light from the outside seeps in. Everything is too loud in the dark, his heartbeat pounding in his ears, the shuffle of Tommy's boots on the carpet. The close air smells like Tommy--alcohol, hair clay, metal and electricity. Tommy smells like such a fucking guy all the time. It's really, really good. And since Adam's calmed down enough to notice how good Tommy smells, he deems it safe to open his mouth without risking another one of those screams. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Tommy says, his voice weird in the dark, muffled, like it's coming from somewhere it shouldn't. "I think you busted my ear drum."

A nervous laugh squeaks out of Adam's throat. "Sorry," he repeats.

"S'okay. Are you, uh, gonna let go?"

"Fuck no."

"So can we sit down or something? You got me up on my toes."

Instead of another apology, Adam says, "Sure," and starts to sink down, his back skidding along the door. After an awkward shuffle that starts with Tommy on his knees between Adam's legs and ends with Tommy muttering, "Fuck it," and crawling into Adam's lap, Adam's sitting cross-legged, Tommy's arms looped around his neck.

Adam asks, "Is this okay?"

"Not gonna be comfortable for long," Tommy says, his breath warm on Adam's neck, tickling, "but if you're not gonna let go, whatever. You're the one who's gonna end up with dead legs."

"You know, it's kind of annoying how you're not at least a little freaked out here." Adam's glad Tommy can't see the sour twist to his mouth. It's probably not very flattering.

"Are you fucking kidding me? I am so fucking freaked. This shit is not normal. The hallway is fucking _gone_."

Adam resettles his hands lower on Tommy's waist. This isn't the first time he's had Tommy in his lap. He's honestly lost track of how often they end up in some position like this, cuddled together. But it is the very first time Adam's biggest worry isn't the joke Tommy's going to crack about the inevitable wood he'll pop. "You don't seem freaked."

"Aside from that banshee scream you let loose in my ear, neither do you." One of Tommy's arms slides down, his cheek taking its place on Adam's shoulder. "What do you figure this shit is, government experiment? Alien invasion? No, wait, I know. Hotel California."

"You're not as funny as you think you are."

"I'm fucking hilarious." There's a moment of silence as Tommy shuffles around, his bony ass digging into Adam's thighs. "Maybe we're dead."

Adam's head thunks against the door. "So heaven is being trapped in the dark with you."

"Best seven minutes you ever had."

A tiny sliver of Adam wishes he could refute that, but he missed out on a whole chunk of growing up. He's sure there was someone in junior high he wanted to be locked in a closet with. Literally, anyway. He had enough of the metaphorical kind.

"I mean limbo, though," Tommy goes on. "Like, maybe we were on our way back to the hotel and got into an accident, so our spirits or energy or whatever have conjured up this place. But it's not right, 'cause we're dead."

"That sounds like a shitty afterlife."

"I dunno, it's not so bad." Another shift like a shrug. "It'd be better if we were making out."

Under normal circumstances, Adam does not have a problem making out with Tommy. Sometimes he wants to slap himself after, because his tongue in Tommy's mouth is as far as he's ever going to get. The regret is never enough that the next time Tommy tilts his face up sweetly for a kiss Adam can manage to say no. He shuffles uncomfortably.

"Am I killing your legs?" Tommy asks.

"Could you please not mention death or dying or related synonyms for five fucking minutes?" Adam snaps.

Shocked silence fills the room. "Sorry," Tommy says, hesitant and sulky.

In case Tommy's getting any ideas about slinking away, Adam holds on tighter. One of Adam's life goals has always been not dying before he's thirty. Considering that'll be in one more year, maybe he should've aimed higher. Like seventy.

Tommy wriggles around again. Anybody else might hold a grudge over getting their head bitten off like that--it's not like any of this is Tommy's fault. Tommy doesn't hold grudges. If he got any more easy-going than he is, he'd be comatose. "Man, you must be freaked. Your dick's usually poking me in the ass by now."

The hysteria Adam's been doing an okay job of keeping under wraps bursts out in a strident laugh. Some tiny sliver of his brain is hoping he can put a lid on it, because stark raving mad isn't really a good look for anybody who isn't Johnny Depp, but wrestling it back under control is a lost cause, even when he runs out of air. His chest aches, burns, but he can't stop.

"Hey," Tommy says, poking him, sounding slightly worried. "Hey, hey, c'mon."

Sucking in a wheezing breath, Adam blurts, "I was," he stops, swallows down a crazy giggle, and tries again after wiping tears from his cheeks. Eyeliner's probably smeared all down his face. "I was wondering how long it'd be before you started talking about my cock."

"I'm _used_ to your cock." It's really strange having an entire conversation in the dark. Tommy's not the most expressive guy, but Adam hadn't realised before how much shows on his face. With only his voice to go by, it feels like trekking through an urban jungle to find the meaning behind his words. "Dude, I know almost as much about your dick as I do my own."

It takes Adam a second to get, "It's what you get for sleeping in my bed," to travel through his brain and out through his mouth. Like Adam's reaction to Tommy squirming around in his lap, morning wood is one of those things he has absolutely no control over. Same as to the decision to not bitch Tommy out for abandoning the band bus to sneak onto Adam's, crawling into Adam's bed while complaining about Monte's snoring or Allison's Twitter addiction or Sasha hogging the television. Adam's always slept better with company. Even insomniac company with a penchant for trashy reality shows.

Tommy's nose bumps into Adam's cheek. "Big cut cock," he says, a teasing smile in his voice, the tilt of his head. "Leans to the left. Betcha got freckles on your nuts."

Wryly, Adam says, "Thought you said you knew it as good as your own."

"Almost," Tommy says. The tip of his nose skims down Adam's jaw. "Almost. Maybe you shoulda let me get a good look at it that time."

Groaning miserably, Adam turns away from the warmth of Tommy's words slithering over his skin. He's not into this whole cocktease thing Tommy keeps pulling, except for how he really, really is. If he honestly wanted Tommy to quit it, he would've said something by now. He _should_ have said something. All it ever leads to is a frantic jerk and squirrelly guilt, or worse, a one-night stand that cures the symptoms but not the cause.

But if he calls Tommy on it, says how very not cool it is, Tommy might actually listen.

"I kinda like talking about your cock," Tommy says, mouth too close to Adam's neck, lips brushing skin. "Like, not as much as you do. But close."

"Don't think you're going to get a handjob out of me now. You're tiny and gorgeous, Tommy Joe, but I'm not that desperate yet." If they're not back to reality by the time the sun comes up, Adam might be.

Heavy silence settles in. Adam's heart lurches weirdly, like gravity's still working fine everywhere except the inside of his chest. He thinks maybe he's been reading this situation wrong. Tommy likes to tease, distract him when he's worried, and Tommy's default mode is sex. It's nothing new for Tommy to talk dirty to him. It doesn't mean anything.

The hush in Tommy's voice isn't the same, though. It's thicker, edging towards a rasp, like an honest to god come-on. His fingers curl in the hair at Adam's nape, stroking. "How about I give you one instead?"

The lights blaze, every single lamp in the room, catching Adam staring wildly at nothing and Tommy staring up at him, gaze heavy-lidded and a soft, sensual slant to his mouth in the brief second before the brightness registers. Then Tommy's scrambling up, "Fuck, fuck, c'mon," pouring out of him as he hauls Adam to his feet, "we're getting the fuck out of here."

"The hallway's fucked!" Adam shouts, but it's too late. The door's open, Tommy's darting through it. Adam yanks at the grip on his wrist, trying to haul Tommy back, and all he ends up doing is breaking free. "Wait, Tommy!"

What happens next isn't physically possible. Adam's _sure_ it's impossible. He's straddling the threshold, reaching for Tommy, Tommy's reaching back for him, both of them are in the _middle of the fucking doorway_ when the door comes crashing right between them, cutting them off.

Adam stumbles back, shocked mute. The door jerks on its hinges as Tommy slams into it, screaming Adam's name between curses, beating on it so fucking hard it shakes and rattles but doesn't move. "Tommy!" Adam shouts, pure reflex, and grabs at the handle, twisting it and twisting it, hauling on it so hard it bites into his palm. He can't get it to budge. He's trapped in here, alone.

Everything goes black.

"Fuck," Adam hisses, whipping around to put his back to the door. A ripple of cold air moves close, caressing his face, his arm. Air conditioning. He's under the vent. "Oh, god," he groans, then, "Tommy! Tommy, can you get out? If you can go, go, and oh my god, you'd better come the fuck back for me. Tommy Joe!"

The racket on the other side stops. Adam's battered heart crawls up into his throat, sour and choking. "Adam?" Tommy calls.

"I mean it," Adam says, forcing the waver out of his voice. "I fucking mean it, go."

But Tommy calls, "Adam?" again, too quiet, worried. "Fuck, fuck. _Fuck_. Adam, if you're there, say something. Please fucking say something."

Adam smacks the flat of his fist into the door. "I'm here. The lights are off again."

There's a muffled thump against the other side of the door, a rough scrape like Tommy sliding down it. "I can't hear you."

Adam closes his eyes. It's better than staring blindly into the dark. Adrenaline burns uselessly in his muscles, aching. It takes him a lot longer than it should to work up the guts to shout, "Tommy, go!"

"Lights went again," Tommy says, and Adam's only heard his voice go forced-casual like this once before, when he first heard about Westboro's plans to protest in Springfield. "Didn't see much before they did, but it looked okay out here."

A nervous, creeping itch slinks beneath Adam's skin. Without Tommy in here with him, the room's gone from merely dark to dangerous, sinister. Where Tommy had filled the silence before, now there's a quiet rustling, a creak, a click, almost-normal night sounds that send Adam's heartbeat tripping. He swallows hard. "Please go," he says, and, "I"m okay," a weak, pathetic lie. Tommy'd never believe him.

"I don't think it's okay now, though," Tommy goes on, oblivious; he really can't hear anything through the door like Adam can. "It like, doesn't feel okay. And I'm not about to shit my pants or anything, but holy fuck, Adam. I am so fucking scared, and I don't even fucking know _why_."

"Not as crazy as I thought you were," Adam mumbles.

"Yeah, um." There another quiet sound, cotton shifting on carpet. "Don't get mad at me or anything, but. And I'm not even sure you can actually fucking hear me, or if you're in there, but like, I kinda hope we're dead. There's nothing to really be afraid of anymore if we're dead. It would sorta suck to be stuck on different sides of the same door for eternity or something, though. Yeah. That would really suck."

A bitter laugh echoes through the door. "As a plot device, though, it's kinda appropriate. Like, you think we're stuck on opposite sides of the fence anyway. We are so not." Something thunks quietly against the wood. "Baby, we are so not. But I'm a little afraid of you. And like, fuck, man," Tommy laughs again, less bitter this time, more like surprise, "if you're listening to this, I'm gonna feel like such a douche, 'cause I should've just _told_ you this shit before. It's not like you'd kick me out on my ass for it." A short pause, and a heavy breath. "I don't even know if you're there."

Uselessly, Adam says, "I'm here." He can't breathe, he's scared out of his fucking mind, but he's here.

"I act like I'm all cool with everything. I like the makeup and shit, and I'm not afraid of my own face or anything, I _like_ the way I look. And there are like times when my mouth fucking waters at the idea of sucking you off, like, seriously sucking you off, letting you fuck my face and come down my throat. And then I freak out. Not, not like," Tommy says quickly, words tripping, "not like a fucking sexuality crisis freak out, not really, but like, what if it's some fucked up shit like your soul I'm attracted to? What if we screw around in bed and it really fucking sucks?"

In complete and utter honesty, Adam thinks the worst sex ever with Tommy Joe would land in his top ten by total default. Mostly, though, he gets where Tommy's coming from. It's one thing to be straight and queer-friendly. It's a whole other universe of something to take somebody's dick up the ass. And thinking about it like that really isn't helping. Fuck, Adam would give up whole chunks of his life, internal organs, almost anything to be the one who shows Tommy what it's like. He'd make it so, so good.

"I don't know," Tommy sighs. Another hollow thud on the door, two; Tommy clunking the back of his head against it. "Maybe I'm no better than everybody else. Maybe all I want is the idea of you."

Adam can live with that. For the chance to find out, Adam can live with it.

When the lights flicker back on, weak and fitful, breath catches in Adam's throat. "Tommy?"

"Oh thank fuck, Adam," Tommy says, too much like relief while they're still apart. There's a rough scramble as Tommy gets to his feet, starts yanking on the door. "Open up. It looks okay out here. The fucking stairs are right there. Let's go."

Hand on the door handle, Adam freezes. He doesn't have any reason to believe it's not Tommy out there. There's no reason why all those things Tommy said, all the things Adam's been dying to hear, weren't real.

But if this place, whatever it is, wanted to take Adam apart piece by piece, this is exactly how to do it. Show him what he wants, make him think he can have it.

Snatch it away.

Resting his forehead on the door, the whole thing shaking as Tommy yanks harder, pleads for him to open up, Adam pulls in a breath. "Tommy," he says, "Tommy, wait."

"What the fuck, wait?" Tommy shouts, panicked. "Wait for _what_ , come on, we need to get out of here!"

"The first time I kissed you," Adam says.

The banging stops. "What?"

"The first time I kissed you, when it wasn't for the show." Talking is suddenly hard. Adam's never had trouble talking about anything in his life. Not even when he was scared and alone, afraid of his own body. "When it was just me and you. What did you say?"

"That," Tommy starts, and hesitates. "That it was only kissing, and it didn't have to mean anything."

"Did it?"

It takes a long time for Tommy to say, "Mean anything?" but it's really only the space of a heartbeat.

"Yeah."

"No." There's the light scratch of Tommy's nails on the door, picking at it. Tommy picks at things when he's nervous. When he's caught in lie, too, and afraid to admit it. "It should've. Fuck, I don't know. You kiss me all the time."

Carefully, Adam turns the handle. The door opens soundlessly. When Adam takes a step back to pull it wide, Tommy takes a hesitant step forward. Beneath the black, his eyes are rimmed in red. His hand's shaking where he props it on the jamb, aiming for that casual, careless ease he wraps himself in like armour and missing by a mile. He's tired, and scared, and too much like looking in a mirror.

"We don't have to talk about it," Adam says, equal parts relief and dismay swimming up into Tommy's eyes. "We don't ever have to talk about it, unless you want to."

Dragging a hand back through his hair, Tommy lets his shoulders slump. "Can we just get outta here?"

Adam steps forward, letting go of the door in favour of grabbing up Tommy's hand. "Don't let go," he instructs, lacing their fingers tight, Tommy's cold against his. "For anything."

"Yeah, okay." Tommy squeezes lightly, some of his real strength showing through. "Stairs are this way."

The red exit sign at the end of the hallway glows brightly. Adam doesn't trust it. Even when he's stepping in front of Tommy to push open the door, _STAIRS_ written on it in big gold letters, and it opens to reveal a stairwell, he doesn't trust it.

Tommy doesn't either. He hangs back, pressed close to Adam's side, first looking up, then down. "That way?"

"That way." Stepping out onto the landing, Adam waits for it to vanish from beneath his feet. The lights stay on. Reaching for the steel railing, he holds on tightly with one hand, and tighter still to Tommy with the other.

"It's a fucking long way down," Tommy says, shuffling forward, testing the first stair. "Better than up here."

Adam couldn't agree more. Making sure his grip on Tommy is secure one last time, he heads down. The urge to run nips at his heels, speeding his pulse. He keeps his pace steady, Tommy at his side holding him back as much as making him want to bolt. If he could just get Tommy out of here.

They make it down three flights, barely glancing at the doors leading to the other levels, before the stairs end. Floor twenty.

"Shit," Tommy breathes. "We could, fuck."

Adam follows his gaze up. The stairs they'd taken down end on an empty platform, walls on all sides. There's nowhere left to go but through the door. "This is why I hate horror movies," he says, gathering Tommy a fraction closer. "You know you're being herded toward something, but you can't do anything about it."

"When we get out of here," Tommy says, reaching for the door handle, and Adam could fucking kiss him for not saying _if_ , "and my love of horrors is toast, I'm gonna be so pissed."

So is Adam. Those movies are a big part of who Tommy is. The idea of this place changing that, rearranging his identity on some crazy whim, makes Adam want to start screaming. He desperately wants to protect Tommy from everything, but there are too many ways to fail. Swallowing against the rise of bile in his throat, he reaches over Tommy's head to push open the door. The corridor beyond is a long strip of nothing but taupe carpet, taupe walls, and another fucking exit sign at the far end. For a split-second, Adam's sure he's hallucinating the door beneath it.

"Fuck," Tommy spits. "I really fucking hate this shit."

"Let's just go," Adam says, and heads carefully for it, pulling Tommy along for the first few steps. "Moving is better than nothing."

"Only 'cause it feels like you're getting somewhere." Tommy catches up, reaching out briefly to touch the wall before stuffing his hand into his pocket. He shuffles a few steps closer as they near the door.

Beyond it, there's another single staircase down, and another door. Exchanging a quick glance, they go through the second door, stepping out into a corridor the exact replica of the one above.

"God damn it," Tommy snarls, slamming his fist into the wall. The plaster cracks beneath the pop of his knuckles. Hissing, he shakes out his hand, mutters a belligerent, "What," at the look Adam throws him.

"Feel better?"

With a small hitch of a smile, Tommy says, "Yeah, kinda. Sorry."

"Hey, whatever." Shrugging, Adam slings an arm low around Tommy's waist, fingers tucked into a pocket. "You want to try Hulking your way out of here, I'm not going to stop you. Might work."

A genuine laugh bubbles up in Tommy's throat. He rests his head briefly on Adam's shoulder, touching because he can, because like Adam, it makes him feel better. It always has. "This is so fucked."

Ridiculously, Adam's not nearly as afraid as he had been before. If he can't get Tommy out of here, then as long as they're together, he's okay. Starving to death in an unending limbo of blank staircases and empty hallways doesn't sound like a lot of fun, and it fills him with a bone-deep regret for all the things he's left undone, but he's okay. In the most desperate, incredibly loose definition of the word. It's probably shock.

The second corridor ends the same as the first, a single flight of stairs, another door, another corridor beyond it. The numbers on the doors keep changing though, counting down. As much as Adam tries to shake the feeling they're like the timer on a bomb waiting patiently to explode in his face, he can't. By the time they hit floor three, his hope that he'd go numb to the strident buzzing of his nerves evaporates in a puff of smoke. He pulls Tommy back from the doorway at the bottom of the stairs. "Wait."

"We can't go back," Tommy says, a question in his eyes.

"What if we really don't want to go where this is taking us, either?" Adam asks. "What if right here is a good as this place gets?"

"We'll still be stuck." Tommy pulls on Adam's arm, walking backwards toward the door. "I don't want to be stuck."

Every molecule in Adam's body is screaming at him to let go of Tommy, to stay right here rather than face what's on the other side of that door, screaming at him so loudly his head aches and his muscles burn, locked tight, rigid. It doesn't make any sense. They need to leave. But he can't move.

Until Tommy stops tugging. Until Tommy says, "Okay," defeated and downcast, so disappointed, "okay. If you want."

"No," Adam blurts, lurching forward. "No, you're right. Let's go," and shoves open the door before he can change his mind, before he puts that terrible crestfallen look back on Tommy's face.

There's no exit sign at the end of this hallway. Nothing except more empty walls and a single door set in the middle, 5060 gleaming brightly on its front.

This time, it's Tommy saying, "No, no," over and over, shuffling toward it disbelievingly. It opens quietly, revealing Adam's room exactly as they had left it, television still on, bed still rumpled, his stuff strewn everywhere.

Adam looks back to stairs. They're gone. Tears prickle in his eyes, hot and stinging. Right back to where they started.

"Forget it," Tommy says, dragging him inside unresisting and numb, and kicks the door shut, "fucking forget it, we'll stay here. We'll get drunk, and we'll fuck, and we'll just fucking stay here, whatever, I don't care."

None of it really registers. When Tommy cuddles in close, Adam wraps him up in a tight hug purely out of habit, breathing in his scent, his warmth, and then clinging to him, crushing his ribs, all the air from his lungs. For a long, long time, Tommy lets him.

Then Tommy's squirming, wheezing, "Fucker, lemme breathe," with a strained laugh in his voice, but not wriggling away when Adam lets up. He pushes closer, up on his toes, both hands skidding through Adam's hair, fisting tight. "Pucker up," is all the warning he gives before his mouth crashes into Adam's.

It's terrible. Too rough, too messy, too much teeth and not enough tongue, nothing like the sweet open kisses Tommy always gives up to him. It's _wonderful_ and honest and it knocks Adam off his feet, Tommy's hands in his hair and his knees locking up the only thing keeping him upright.

"Wait," Adam tries, slurred into Tommy's mouth, hands grasping for Tommy's wrists, "wait, wait."

"No," Tommy growls, pushing against him, shoving. "I don't want to wait. There's nothing to wait for. For fuck's sake, _Adam_."

"We don't have to do this," Adam says, holding Tommy off with a hand on his shoulder, too close to his throat to not think about all the times Adam's held him exactly like this, how his eyelashes fluttered _exactly_ like that, sparking an anticipation in the air between them so thick it coats the inside of Adam's lungs. Adam wants so badly for this to be real, not some hopeless, desolate thing. "I heard you. I heard everything. Don't think you have to."

"What the fuck, 'have to'," Tommy snaps, chin tilting up, defiance and an invitation all in one. "Fuck you, we could die here. We could already be dead! If I don't have to do it now, when, huh? _When_."

Adam's stomach lurches, a sick black churn. He should be happy with what he can get. Be Tommy's one last good thing.

"So it's twisted, whatever," Tommy says, softer. "It really fucking sucks, and I had a fucking million chances before now that I didn't take. I'm taking this one, okay? I want this one."

The only thing for Adam to do then is kiss him. Hold his face in both hands and kiss him like he deserves to be kissed, not a show, or a stolen taste of something Adam can never really have, or like somebody without anyplace else left to go. The way Adam's always wanted to kiss him, slowly and thoroughly, all the things Adam's always thought he liked--strong push of tongue against his, a sharp tug on his bottom lip--tearing him down until he's pliant in Adam's arms, clutching weakly and too dazed to kiss back anymore.

When Adam draws back to kiss the slant of his jaw, Tommy's, "Holy shit," is a ragged gasp bursting between them. Then, "Shit, fuck, _shit_ ," on a moan, his head falling back to let Adam at his throat, suck kisses close to bruising there, and, "fuck, that got me hard. You fucking kissed me _hard_."

The shocked delight in Tommy's voice makes Adam laugh, pull back to see his face. "Don't front," Adam says, "I've gotten you hard before."

"Yeah, but." Stopping short, Tommy straightens up, shakes his head like he's trying to jolt his brain back into functioning order. "Fuck, we gotta slow down, or you're gonna make me cream it."

Adam's compelled to point out, "This is pretty slow."

"At least get naked first," Tommy insists, and puts a token scrap of distance between them, barely enough for him to get his hands on Adam's belt. He fumbles it twice, eager and embarrassed and shrugging it off as Adam gets in the way by yanking his hoodie and shirt off over his head, leaving his hair fluffed up and his arms bare for Adam to touch his ink, follow it to the sensitive curve beneath his arms, the sharp wing of his collarbones. Tommy shivers as Adam's hands sweep over his belly, one sliding out to cup his hip, the other down to his cock.

Tommy's eyelashes dip, mouth going briefly slack before he forces his gaze up again. "Told you," he says, grabbing onto Adam's arm behind the elbow, holding steady for a slow grind. "Really fucking hard."

Fuck, he is. Thick and full and amazing trapped against Adam's palm, and so, so sure of what he wants. "Bed," Adam says, giving him a nudge back, pulling off his own shirt and letting it drop, his rings thumping one by one to the floor in its wake.

"Yeah," Tommy says, walking backwards, thumbing open his jeans and watching as Adam does the same. His thighs hit the bed frame and he tumbles down, catching himself on one elbow. "Fuck. Don't forget the lube. Oh fuck, use lots of lube."

In the middle of kicking off his jeans, Adam trips, almost falls flat on his ass. "What?"

"Lube," Tommy repeats, squirming back on the bed and frantically shoving at his clothes, getting free of jeans and shorts in a flurry before settling down, calm now that he's finally naked. "You're gonna fuck me. And you're gonna do it really, really slowly, 'cause holy shit, you are _packing_." He makes a sound like a whimper, hand twitching on his dick. "I think I like it."

Which leaves Adam standing there without a stitch on, staring like a total idiot as Tommy starts jacking. It's not his fault. Tommy is everything he's ever wanted, or maybe everything he's ever wanted is Tommy, tiny and talented, easy-going and viciously loyal, who he is inked into his skin, attitude glinting in his eyes, genuine affection in his smile, all he's got to offer shining right through to his surface. Adam really is a moron for seeing all of this day in and day out, but not _seeing_ it.

Opening up one of the nightstand's drawers, Adam plucks out a bottle of lube, holds it up for Tommy's approval. At Tommy's nod, he flings it somewhere on the bed, way more interested at the moment in crawling on top of Tommy, kissing him again with his knuckles brushing Adam's belly.

Between slow licks into Tommy's mouth, Adam says, "Thought you were gonna slow down?"

"This is slow," Tommy says, but he stops lazily jerking off, presses his hand, hot and slick with precome, to Adam's side. The tip of his tongue grazes Adam's lips, tracing the shape of them. "You gonna finger me first?"

Adam squeezes his eyes shut tight with a hissed curse. Once his heart decides to start beating again, he says, "You gonna let me look at you?"

A sweet deep flush steals across Tommy's face. "Yeah," and he draws one knee up, "yeah, okay," and then the other, "look all you want. Might as well see what you're gonna get a piece of."

Adam steals one more kiss, loud and smacking and too quick for Tommy to kiss back, and settles onto his haunches between Tommy's spread knees. There are some things Adam already knew about Tommy, like how the boxy cut of his hips flows directly into a flat ass, and how he's one of those skinny little shits that's got more going on below the belt than most people twice his size. But not that Tommy's cut too, or that his ass isn't flat so much as it's tiny, really fucking tiny, or the way he shivers when Adam's thumbs slide into his crack, and that he's tiny there too, and tight, and so soft and smooth that Adam wants to get his mouth all over him.

Tommy's foot twitches on the bed as Adam runs a fingertip gently over his hole. "Pretty all over, huh," Tommy says, kind of like he's not sure.

Swallowing thickly, Adam says, "You have no fucking idea." They haven't done anything and Adam's balls are heavy, aching. Maybe he should jerk off first. He hasn't had to do that since his late teens, but whatever, Tommy's not going to shame him about it. At the rate he's going, he'll be hard again by the time Tommy's ready to take him. "Oh, god," he groans. He's going to fuck Tommy Joe.

"Fingers," Tommy says, like he thinks Adam's totally dropping the ball here. He pushes the lube into Adam's hand. "See what I look like when I got a couple those in me."

Adam drops the lube, hand flying to the base of his dick to give it a rough squeeze. He sucks air in through his nose, fast and loud, and Tommy grins up at him, pleased. "Yeah," Tommy says, "knew you'd like that."

"You and your filthy mouth," Adam says, dropping down to kiss him again, flicking the lube open one-handed because god damn it, he's good at this, he knows how to fuck somebody without fumbling all over himself like it's his first time. He gets his fingers wet, not caring about the bedspread, and presses his thumb snugly to Tommy's hole, not pushing in, letting him get used to the idea. Muscles flutter, go tight then loose, soft, and Adam's thumb sinks in a little anyway.

Tommy groans, one leg stretching out, then bending at the knee again. He rocks his hips down, urging Adam deeper and letting out a disappointed noise that cuts off in the middle when Adam switches from thumb to forefinger, sliding in all the way to the knuckle. "Fuck," he says, tensing up as Adam's finger crooks, stroking; he's so fucking warm inside, and he melts, fucking _melts_ when Adam draws free, pushes in again. "Fuck, that is so good, you'd fucking think I never fingered myself before, like, fuck."

"Ever watch?" Adam asks, his other hand holding Tommy spread so he can, the sight of two fingers sinking sinfully easy into Tommy's body as amazing as feeling him clench tight around them, quivering from the inside out as Adam gives in to the urge to play. He presses against soft inner flesh, fucks in slowly, out even slower, spreading his fingers so they force Tommy's hole open.

"Gonna," Tommy starts, voice crackling as he cups his cock, rubs it against his belly, "gonna put me in front of a mirror, show me?"

Lust clenches tight in Adam's gut. He's so going to do that. When he's not so greedy for everything Tommy has, when the thought of moving away for even a second doesn't make him want to scream, he'll do that. "I'm going to fuck you first," comes tumbling out of him and fuck, _first_ , like he's so fucking sure Tommy'll want more when he's done.

The noise Tommy makes when he pulls his hand away should be fucking illegal. He says, "Put your knee down a sec," and presses on Tommy's leg, climbing off and to the side to stretch out beside him.

And maybe Tommy's a fucking mind reader, because Adam doesn't have to say a word to get Tommy spooning up against him, back to chest, knee skidding up over the rumpled sheets to invite Adam's hand back between his legs. When Adam takes too long getting back to it, honestly stunned by how easily Tommy read him, Tommy twists around to laugh at him, kiss him, and say, "I know you, man. You're gonna do me sweet and slow, work me over real good and make sure I like it, 'cause once isn't ever gonna be enough for you." His palm slides down Adam's forearm, bringing Adam's fingers back to his slippery hole. "C'mon and get your dick up in me already."

They should go slow. They should fucking hang on a minute, enjoy this, spend the whole night or forever working up to it. But Tommy's reaching further back, jacking Adam's cock, rubbing the head beside Adam's fingers, nudging at his hole with it for fuck's sake, and Adam's not that much of a saint. Patience can be his virtue tomorrow. Tonight, he's giving up anything Tommy wants.

While he gropes for the lube, Tommy keeps teasing him, pushing his cock up to ride the crack of Tommy's ass, down again so it bumps against Tommy's balls, leaves a sticky wet trail on the inside of one thigh. Only when he comes in with a slick hand does Tommy let go, and then it's to grab roughly onto Adam's hip, trembling at the first blunt push. Adam tucks his face into Tommy's hair, breathes, "Hang on, baby. It'll be good."

"Gonna be fucking electric," Tommy says, the shiver Adam can feel echoing down his spine creeping into his voice, "but you gotta," and he breaks off on a groan, delicate muscle fluttering around the head of Adam's cock trying to push him out. "Gotta just go for it."

"Relax," Adam tries, curling his other arm down to stroke along the tense lines of Tommy's face. He shouldn't have given in so easily. What kind of first-time fuck is he, he's been where Tommy is, willing his body to do what his mind wants, to accept it, to let somebody fuck up inside him.

When he starts to ease off, Tommy's blunt nails gouge into his hip, claw down the back of his thigh trying to haul him in closer. "Don't you fucking dare," Tommy grits out, breath coming in short, hard bursts. "Keep goin'. All the way."

"Baby-"

"All the fucking way, or fuck you, I'm gonna roll you over, stick my dick up your ass."

"I wouldn't say no if you did," Adam says, then, "Hang on," again, like Tommy needs the encouragement to hold on tighter. Those welts are going to be on Adam's leg for days, they're already stinging, and he honestly can't wait to see them, to see _Tommy was here_ clawed into flesh.

Holding Tommy still, Adam pushes.

Immediately, Tommy starts squirming, breath cut to ribbons, but not like he's trying to get away, or it's too much. Or it _is_ too much, exactly like the right kind of too much that's jolting up Adam's spine, the tight heat of Tommy's body fighting him, and fighting him, and then finally giving way. Nothing stops the noises that come spilling so freely out of Tommy, ragged choppy ones, soft and hard all at once, not when Adam pauses, seated deep, trying to give Tommy a second to get used to it, or when Adam can't take all that heat surrounding his dick without moving and he draws back, the slick clutch gone from trying to keep him out to keep him in.

" _Fuck_." Tommy scrubs hair out of his face on his shoulder, twisting in Adam's hold, his whole body rocking forward with the next slow thrust in. "Jesusfuck, that's your fucking dick in me, fuck, _fuck_."

Moving a hand down Tommy's belly, Adam finds his cock as hard as it'd been when they started, way harder than Adam had been his first time taking it. The first guy Adam slept with, though, really slept with, wasn't anybody special. They didn't have this awesome thing he and Tommy do, the months and months and _months_ together to let it build, become this, tangled up together in a rhythm that feels like breathing, like being high, like everything.

"I'm sorry," Adam says, pressing a sloppy kiss to Tommy's shoulder as he falls out of that rhythm, wanting too much now. "Sorry, I can't- I can't, fuck, Tommy."

Tommy says, "S'good," and, "Don't stop," and a mess of other things, half-formed thoughts tumbling out of him unchecked between frantic breaths, broken noises. He takes the hard slam of Adam's cock like there's nothing he wants more, writhing on it, messing up Adam's smooth strokes but that only makes it better, makes it real.

"Come on, come on," Tommy's saying, twisting around to get at Adam's mouth, "let it go right in me, slick me up, really make me feel it," all dirty, filthy things, incredible things, stupid porno stuff that shouldn't nail Adam as hard as it does. But it hits him like a freight train, like a fucking semi barrelling down the highway at seventy-five per, and leaves him absolutely fucking devastated, gasps muffled in Tommy's hair as he comes apart at the seams. Fumbling, he gets a hand on Tommy's cock, strips is fast and hard, desperate to feel Tommy shatter while he's still buried deep.

That it only takes a handful of seconds for Tommy to lose it almost sends Adam tumbling over the edge all over again, the echoes of Tommy's orgasm reverberating through him, the most fucked-up and glorious post-orgasmic high ever.

Tommy goes limp, struggling to breathe. The way he's still twitching gets to be too much, and Adam murmurs a warning, slowly withdraws. Tommy buries his face in the blankets, muffling a moan. He jerks again, uncoordinated and clumsy, when Adam gently touches his hole with come-slick fingers, finds it fever-hot and swollen.

"Go on," Tommy says, barely lifting his head. "I know you wanna."

"This?" Adam asks, not really a question at all when the tip of his finger's already sliding in easily with Tommy fucked loose, pliant. All Tommy has in response is another moan, and his knee hitching higher, inviting more. He has to be sore. Even in the endorphin haze, it has to hurt at least a little. "What if I want more?"

"Whatever," isn't much of an answer, but Tommy's restless fidgeting is. Gathering up a corner of one sheet, Adam wipes up the mess between Tommy's legs, and scoots down, urging Tommy to roll all the way over onto his belly, stretched out and gorgeous. "What're you doing?"

"You said I could look at you all I wanted." And fuck, does Adam want to see what he's done.

Tommy gives up another ragged noise as Adam spreads him open, traces his puffy rim with one finger, not soothing so much as exploring, enjoying. They've got all the time in the world, and those sounds Tommy's making are objections, disbelieving and maybe shocked, but aren't anything like no. His leg jerks when Adam leans in close, lets breath first and then the tip of his tongue slide over Tommy's hole, and then a slow, sucking kiss that brings Tommy's head up, whipping around to stare down at him.

"Pretty kinky," is all Tommy says, fingers kneading absently in a knot of blankets.

"If you let me," Adam says, and goes for another kiss, slow and lingering this time with his tongue pushing at clenched muscle, slipping past it to lick Tommy soft and open again, "I'll do everything to you."

"Gonna keep me?"

Adam hesitates in the middle of a lazy lick, finishing it with a kiss instead before he rocks up onto his hands and knees. There's something raw in Tommy's eyes, vulnerable, and Adam knows that look, too. He's seen it staring back at him in the mirror too many times. Seen it on Tommy's face before now, too, when Adam's gently pushed him away, said no to a question Tommy had never gotten the chance to ask, when Adam was so sure it was the right thing to do.

"Yeah," Adam says, and crawls up over Tommy for another kiss, hesitating again when Tommy does because he just had his mouth on Tommy's ass, his tongue _in_ it, his breath is thick with come, and maybe that's not something Tommy's into. He nuzzles his nose against Tommy's cheek instead. "Yes, I'll keep you, for as long as you want."

"Good," Tommy says, so much conviction behind it, and he pushes Adam down, takes that kiss after all.

*

For the third time, Adam wakes up disoriented and groggy. Tommy is hot and surprisingly heavy sprawled out halfway on top of him, one knee digging into Adam's thigh and pointy chin gouging into Adam's shoulder. Everything smells like sex. Beautiful, fucking amazing sex, and Tommy _looks_ like sex, rumpled and bitten and slack with sleep.

"Lookin' at me," Tommy mumbles, a lazy shuffle pressing his morning wood into Adam's hip. "Tryin' sleep."

Morning. Adam's gaze jumps to the light streaming in through the window. They're in Tommy's room, movie memorabilia strung up all over the place, concert posters, clothes strewn across the floor and electrical cables, about a dozen guitars, a palette of MAC eyeshadows open on top of a battered amp. He sits up so fast he clocks Tommy in the chin with his elbow.

"Shit," Adam babbles, "shit, Tommy, I'm sorry, but oh my god, get up. Open your eyes, get up."

Rubbing his jaw, Tommy leans up on one arm. "That is one bitchy way to wake a guy up. What the fuck are you, oh. Fuck." He scrambles up, sheets pooling in his lap, the naked curve of his ass peeking out from beneath the hem. "The fuck?"

"I don't know." Scooting to the edge of the bed, Adam stands up, fully expecting the world to dissolve around them. The world stays steady, but Tommy makes a strangled noise, high-pitched and startled. Adam whips around. "What? God, what now?"

"You totally fucked me," Tommy says, a weird scrunched-up look on his face. "Figured I'd be sore, but fuck, am I really fucking sore." When he glances up, his gaze goes unfocused, glassy as it skips quickly to Adam's face then sliding slowly back down again. "And you are really fucking hot naked. Nice wood."

"'Nice wood'?" Adam echoes. "Seriously? Did what happened to me happen to you, or did I hallucinate the whole fucking thing, because oh my god, Tommy. Oh my fucking god, I'm never doing E again."

"Yeah, uh," Tommy says, the look in his eyes slipping to guilt. "I've been awake for couple minutes. Maybe we could like, pretend it didn't?"

Adam's stomach hits the floor with a dull thud and keeps on going.

"No!" Tommy rocks up onto his knees, reaching out. "Fuck, not like that. I didn't mean that. I'm not like having morning after regrets or some shit."

Knees gone weak, Adam plunks his ass back down on the bed. He's fully appreciative of how Tommy's eyes skip down again, like Tommy's really enjoying the view, and fuck knows all he wants to do is stare at Tommy, bright and bare in the sun. But. "You mean the hotel, right? Pretend that didn't happen."

A quick nod tumbles hair into Tommy's face. He flicks it back. "Thinking about it's only gonna drive us crazy. I thought I was gonna go nuts waiting for you to come around."

Adam doesn't bother asking why Tommy didn't wake him, why Tommy didn't get up, go exploring to see if this is really his house and not some fucked-up dreamspace. If Adam had woken up first, he'd have clung to whatever silver of normalcy he could find, too. He glances at the window, the trees a rich green, the sky soft blue, and the sound of midday traffic a few streets over filtering in through the screen. "Do we trust it?"

Inching over, Tommy straddles Adam's lap on his knees, easing down with a distracted grunt at the tug on muscles he's not used to aching. "Guess we're gonna have to, until there's a reason why not."

Adam lets that kick around in his head, waiting to see if it'll settle. There's not much else to do except go with it, or live his life in a constant state of paranoia that nothing's real. It's a good hook for a song, but nothing he wants to deal with day after day, night after night.

From deeper in the house comes a loud bang. "Just Mike," Tommy says quickly as Adam jolts. "Dishwasher sticks."

"Shit," Adam says on a sound close to a laugh. "Frightened the crap out of me."

Tommy nods absently, slumping forward to rest his cheek on Adam's shoulder. "We're okay, right? We're gonna get drunk, and we're gonna fuck again, and we're not fucked up."

Sinking slowly back, Adam stares up at Tommy edged in warm sunlight, takes in everything about the way he looks right now, rumpled in the morning-after, content and hopeful, still a little afraid. Maybe he's not sure any of this is real, either. Maybe he's trying his best to believe that they both tripped out so bad they did some whacked-out shared hallucination thing and spent last night stumbling blindly through the dark of his house. That spilling his guts about all the things he's been too scared to say sober in the bright light of day isn't the worst thing he's ever done.

The best answer Adam has is to gather him close, and kiss him.


End file.
